Nesting
by Samzi
Summary: In a world were there are two races, humans, and winged-folk. John Watson finds himself in care of an egg. He'll need to learn to look after a winged-child, who he'll name Sherlock. This is a winglock/parentlock. Some funny times ahead, fluffy goodness, and more. Rated T to be safe. Some bad words, and suicidal thoughts, but nothing to bad. If triggers you, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a winglock/parentlock Sherlock fanfic. My first fanfic posted. Hope folk enjoy. This first chapter is a short one, more like a testing the waters. I posted it on Tumblr, but that's it.**

**I don't own Sherlock in any shape or form...this is written for fun.**

Nesting

Chapter one

The winged-folk have lived along side humans for as long as humans have walked the Earth. Each race enriching the other. In fact they need one another. Whilst the winged-folk are the most powerful, and wise. Humans on the other hand are nurturing. You see winged-folk are like cuckoos. They have no idea how to love their offspring, so need another race to do so. Humans. Over time humans have come to see being picked to raise a winged-child as the greatest honour. These humans are known as The Chosen.

John Watson couldn't understand why he of all people had surived the war wound. One that all rights should of taken his life. Yes. He had begged God to let him live, but...he didn't believe in who he spoke to, that dreadful day. The day his life ended. In all sense of purpose, he's the living dead. Forced to repect the same day over, and over, until he finally pulls, that trigger. He was sent home with an ugly starburst on his left shoulder, nightmares, and a limp to boot.

Winter is hugging London in her icy grasp, fogging John's breath as he limps home to the dump of a bedsit, bag full to bursting from Tescos in hand. He wont be able to stay in London for much longer, with his army pension. The thought of staying with Harry brings a chill down his spine, so he pushes it aside.

John unlocks his door, with a heavy heart. Once the door swings open though, his eyes bug out, because he can't be seeing, what he thinks he does. He just can't!

In the centre of his bed is a huge creamy white egg, about the size of a watermelon. Wrapped round said egg are his blankets, and every jumper he owns.

John knows, what kind of egg it is. Of course he does. Everyone knows, what lays these eggs, but it can't be! Why would he be chosen?! John Watson is a nobody. Why would a winged-folk pick him to bring up a winged-child?

**Let me know what you think...pretty please with sugar on top :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**So...here's chapter two :) far longer than the last :) which I hope will make folk happy bunnies :)**

**I don't own Sherlock in any shape or form...this is written for fun.**

Nesting

Chapter Two

John steps into the waiting-room of the Registry Office For The Chosen And Their Winged-Children. A bit long winded...but hey...it works. Anyone who becomes chosen must register the fact. What better place to get this mix-up sorted?

The walls are a cool blue, the flooring carpeted a deep blue, large posters of winged-children of all ages are decorating the walls, a long glass table is in the centre covered in magazines all of, which are about winged-children, human couples are seated in the plush black chairs dotted around the spacious room.

He's the only singleton here. No surprise there. John has never heard a single person rearing a winged-child..._ever! _It only strengthens his notion, that it was some kind of mistake. Why else, would an egg be laid in his _bed? _John Watson could never be a Chosen. Nothing ever happens to him.

Taking a deep breath John lowers himself into the nearest seat. His fingers twiddling a card. A classification card. The only other thing left by the egg's mother. It has all the information needed to know, where the egg came from. Clan name, parents, the list goes on. One side is the clan's coat-of-arms, a blue-green shield with a raven sitting in the middle, on the other side are a bunch of symbols, which John recognizes as winged-folk language, but never found the skill to read.

A woman's voice penetrates John's mind, and his head snaps up.

"Dr Watson?"

A winged-woman is standing at the doorway clutching a tablet, dressed in a slate-grey suit, a warm smile gracing her pleasant face. Her red hair swept up into a bun, and rusty coloured wings pressed close to her back. Power rolls off of the winged-woman, much like others of her kind. All winged-folk hold themselves, with the same powerful aura. Standing, all John can think is better get this misunderstanding righted sooner, rather than later.

John followed the winged-woman into a compact office, a small desk, and two chairs the only things within. The winged-woman is one of the registrars, who introduced herself as Miss Ruby Weathers.

John is wiggling in his wooden chair, wanting anything, but to be here. Can a black hole swallow him up any time soon? That sounds better, than _this_. John's feeling like he's been sent to the head teacher's office.

"Dr Watson. First I must congratulate you for being chosen. As you're well aware it's a great honour, which'll improve your life," the winged-woman says as her fingers fly over the keyboard.

"I'm sure, but..."

"There are many benefits for those raising winged-childen. The child's parents will give you a lump sum for help in their offspring's needs, plus the government includes a monthly payment, all this is for the wellbeing of the child. Enabling you to ensure the winged-child has the right environment to live, and grow-up in. Not to mention the basics the child will need throughout it's childhood. If, for any reason the egg doesn't hatch, which unfortunately _does _happen time, and again, then all benefits will be evoked."

"That's all very good..."

"Once the child reaches the age of 23 years a clan member will get into touch, and your envolvement with the child will end. Any questions?"

Sighing John says, with a hint of a bite "Yes, actually. I think, there has been some kind of a mistake."

"Mistake?" Miss Weathers asks looking completely shocked by John's words.

"Yeah. I don't see how I could of been chosen. There are others far better than me to raise this winged-child. I'm on my own. I'm not married or even close. Why, would I be picked?"

"I can assure you Dr Watson, there are never any mistakes. This child's parents studied you, _researched_ you, I'm sure you know how this works?"

"I am," John answers with a nod.

"Then you know, that it's not possible for a mistake to be made."

"But I have a _limp! _I wouldn't be able to keep up with a human kid, just think of the way I'll be with a winged-child."

Miss Weathers furrows her brow, her eyes scanning John's form, making his skin itch.

"What limp Dr Watson?"

This knocks John for a loop. Is she playing tricks with him? He's heard the way some winged-folk are. Showing off how much smarter they are compared to humans.

"I have a cane," John snaps looking down at the hand resting in his lap. The hand, that has held his cane since leaving the damned hospital, even sitting he holds the_ bloody thing_. John gasps. His cane, which had become an extra limb, is nowhere to be seen.

"If you have quite finished Dr Watson...we can carry on...Have you got your egg's classification card with you?"

In a daze John hands over the card. How had he left the bedsit, without his cane? It has been a part of him for so long, he's forgotten it was even there. Now as he thinks about it, the pain in his leg has gone like vapour. _Psychosomatic. _A voice whispers from the shadows of his mind.

Studying the card Miss Weathers explains her findings "The child belongs to the Holmes Clan. I'm sure you don't need me telling you how influential they are. They're amongst the most intellect of _all_ winged-folk. The mother is Violet Holmes, the father Siger Holmes, this is their third egg laid, the other two hatched to be both male. I strongly suggest, that you do your research on the child's parents, _and_ clan, so you can name the child accordingly. You may name the child, whatever you wish, as long as you give the child the surname Holmes."

John nodded along with the information thrown at him, although he still couldn't understand, that this wasn't some mistake. John Watson is a common name right? Maybe they got mixed up. So he voices his concerns. Hoping to put on end to this once, and for all. That way the egg can go to someone far better.

"Are you _sure_ it's not a mistake? _I'm_ not being ungrateful or anything, but...why would I be picked?"

Grumbling Miss Weather looks, about ready to burst. Probably never encountered anyone acting like John is now. Humans, would climb over each other to raise a winged-child. The status given to The Chosen is, what most can only dream of.

"Dr Watson. I've personally read your file as soon as your appointment was booked. A file. _Your_ egg's parents sent us, I might add, and, there _is no _shadow of a doubt, that you are a _Chosen. _Someone worthy to nurture a winged-child. _Not_ only are you a doctor, but you were formerly one of the Royal Army Medical Corps, formerly part of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a Captain, and honoured greatly for bravery, _a national hero."_

John swallows the lump in his throat that had formed. John doesn't see himself neither brave or a hero. He only ever did his job...his duty. Nothing any other soldier hasn't done. Why, should _he_ be honoured whilst others weren't?

"But..."

With that Miss Weathers twists the computer screen to face John. Before him, along, with _all_ his personal information, is a picture of himself. It is _true! _He is a _Chosen!_

John leaves the Registry Office For The Chosen And Their Winged-Children. His head buzzing. The fact, that he is a Chosen, and no, it's not a mistake, is making him dizzy. Pushing all, that to the back of his mind for the time being, wishing he had someone to talk to, about all this, and heads straight to the nearest clothes store. He's in need of new jumpers. The nest can't be disturbed, whatever was used to build the nest must remain. Why oh why did the mother have to use his jumpers? He loves his jumpers.

As John is wondering round the racks of clothes, a number of jumpers draped over one arm he hears someone call out his name, although, with such a common name as his John rarely answers.

"John? John Watson?"

Once John's ears pick up his surname he stops, pivots on the spot, and his eyes land on a portly human man. He's wearing a long light grey coat over a dark brown suit, matched with a checkered shirt, a stripy red and yellow tie. The man's face is warm, and his face graces a pair of metal framed glasses. He's looking at John as if he knows him. John searches his mind trying to match the face, with a name. He hates to be seen as rude.

"Mike. Mike Stamford," the man says patting his own chest, and turns slightly to reveal tiny earthy brown wings. Wings so small, you could hardly call them as such.

A memory flashes behind John's eyes. _Mike Stamford_. A friendly soul who, was a great friend back at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where they both trained as doctors. Always had his back no matter what. He is a rarity. Some may say oddity. A human-winged-folk-hybrid, known as winged-human. Being hybrids no two winged-humans are the same, although all are flightless, and commonly have stubby wings.

"Ah. Yes. Of course," John says offering his hand for a handshake.

"I know...I got fat," Mike jokes as he shakes John's hand a tad too vigorously.

Same old Mike, John thinks. Mike was always the kind that you couldn't help but befriend. A ray of sunshine.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

"Got shot," John answers soberly.

Mike drops John's hand as if it just burned him, and looks crestfallen. Such a kind soul. Never one to purposely hurt someone, and taking it to heart, whenever he does accidentally.

"Wonna go some place for a coffee?" Mike offers, looking helpful. Clearly wanting to make amend in some small way.

Taking pity on the hybrid John answers "Sure. Just let me pay for these. Yeah?"

Mike nods in reply.

They are sitting beside each other on a bench in the park nearby John's bedsit. One he's walked tons since returning from Afghanistan. Both nursing a takeaway cup of coffee. An awkward feeling is flowing between them. John speaks up first.

"Are you still at Bart's then?"

"Yeah. Head of winged-antenatal care now. What about you, just staying in town, while you get yourself sorted?"

"If you had asked me that a few days ago I would of said, I can't afford London on an army pension, but now things have changed. I've been chosen. Came home to find an egg waiting for me in my bed," a head shake "Of all _the _things that could of_ happened _to me, I never saw _that_ coming."

Mike blinks at John for a few moments, then a bright grin spreads across his warm face "I always _knew_ you were _special_. Congrats!"

John smiles weakly still unable to wrap his mind around the fact, that he's one of _The Chosen. _Someone _worthy._

"Hey. You'll need antenatal care. I could carry that out for ya. Unless you've already sorted that out, mind."

"That'll be great Mike. Having a friendly face round at this time would be a help," John answers, unable to stop, but think, that maybe his wish has came true.

"Of course," Mike breathes clapping John on his, thankfully good shoulder, then follows up, with an after thought "Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen? Anyway Mike, what do I need to do to set up first visit of my egg. Phone up?"

My egg? John needs to get used to saying, _that!_

"No worries John. I'm still on break. Can have a look see now."

"I can't ask you to do that. Really Mike. I don't want to trouble you."

"No troubles John. Let me grab my bag, and it'll only take me two ticks to check out your egg," Mike says with a sunny smile.

John can't say no to such a warm, and friendly soul, not with a nature like Mike's. So nods.

Embarrassment fills John as he lends Mike into his bedsit. He pushes down the colour, that's threatening to stain his cheeks to a ruby red.

The bedsit is a shabby, outdated dwelling at best. The main room has his sorry ass single bed pushed against the far wall, just next to the only window, to the left of the main door is a tiny kitchenette, a second door is a stone's throw from his bed, which leads to a tiny sorry excuse of a shower-room/toilet. The whole place is grey, in colour, and feeling.

Mike's tiny wings flutter in excitement as his eyes land on the egg nestled in it's nest of blankets, and jumpers.

"It's a beaut isn't it?"

"Mike. It's an egg. Don't they _all_ look alike?"

Mike shakes his head good-naturedly, as he makes his way towards John's bed.

"I assure you John. This egg is speacial. Your hatchling is going to be one remarkable child."

John hums. Humoring his friend. To his eyes it looks like any winged-folk egg he's ever seen. Mind. He's only seen a handful in his career of doctoring, but still. An egg. Is an egg.

"The temperature is perfect John," Mike informs John after testing the room's heat.

Mike probes the nest, and runs his hands over the egg shell, humming happily, pleased with his findings, Mike pulls a portable white light out of his bag.

"Close the blinds wont you John?"

John silently moves over to the window, plunging the bedsit into semi-darkness, within moments.

"Come over here John. You wouldn't want to miss this," Mike says passionately, as he places the light behind the egg, and carefully removes the egg's coverings.

John comes to stand beside Mike. Mike turns to John, smiling that sunny smile of his, then he flicks the switch on the lamp.

As the light shines through the egg John's heart melts. He can clearly see a noticeable dark blob within. The embryo.

"It's a winner John," Mike says happily as he turns the lamp off.

John blinks, and blinks some more, yet the image remains. The sight of his unhatched winged-child. A baby. _His_ baby. Will forever be sketched on his retinas. For the first time since coming home John feels complete.

"How does it feel to be a daddy John?"

John's heart sings.

"Wonderful."

Wonderful indeed. John H Watson will forever be changed.

**Some yummy facts :) Well I think so :) How I came up with Sherlock's parents names - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle loved the name Violet, and best bet for Sherlock's mother's name by many. His father's name Siger came from Sherlock calling himself Sigerson for a case, which means son of Siger. From The Adventure of the Empty House.**

**Why two eggs before Sherlock's you may ask? Well Baring-Gould who wrote Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street invented Sherrinford, the oldest of the brothers. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was thinking to name Sherlock, Sherrinford, so I added him into the mix.**

**Let me know what you think...pretty please with sugar on top :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Another good sized chapter for you good folk :) We say hi to John's blog in this chapter :) It'll pop up along the storyline.**

**I'm also posting this on AO3 as Samzi and Wattpad as Samziwoo.**

**I don't own Sherlock in any shape or form...this is written for fun.**

Nesting

Chapter Three

The Blog of Dr John H Watson

Well, how do I start? I have some wonderful news to share. I didn't want to post it here until I was 100% sure the most risky time period had passed, which thankfully it has!

To cut a long story short I've become one of The Chosen. I'm over the moon! At first I couldn't understand why of all the people in London I was picked! But hay! I'm gonna be a daddy! Of sorts anyhow.

My egg is doing well. The little-one is growing steadily, and looking strong.

My pal Mike thinks the little-one is going to be extraordinary once hatched. Well, time will tell on that one. No matter what I'll love the little-one, with every fibre of my soul.

Something, that any followers might find funny, my bed was made into a nest! Let me tell you having a winged-folk nest in place of your bed is no teddy-bear picnic! I can't very well sleep beside the egg. I could knock it out of bed, or overheat it. Not to mention all the other things, that might happen to the little treasure. Just thinking of them give me nightmares. So I purchased an inflatable bed. Sleeping on the floor is giving my bad shoulder Hell! I feel nothing, but love for the little-one. I'll do anything for this unhatched soul. Suffering some pain for a few is nothing.

Anyway...If I sleep on, that hellish inflatable bed for the whole gestation, I'll be in no state to care for the little-one. Anyhow my bedsit is no place for a child, so a flat hunt, is a must! A.S.A.P. I will find a new home. A place worthy for my winged-child. After the first trimester, the egg can be moved as long as it's done correctly. I'm a doctor. I know these things! So don't try it, without medical assistance.

Comments

Is that why you've been missing your appointments? I tried to call.

E Thompson

Been rushed off my feet. Sorry. Will phone soon.

John Watson

Why didn't you tell me bro?! Are we going to meet up soon?! After all I'm going to be an aunt!

Harry Watson

Much like humans, winged-babies develop over time within their eggs, marked by trimesters. The first scary trimester has just passed for John's egg. Three long months. Just as it's for humans, the first trimester is the most risky for the embryo. Any given moment the embryo could up, and die, with no likely reason to why. A miscarriage of sorts. An egg, which the embryo starts growing, then stops are known as quitters. The greatest fear for any Chosen.

John has been lovingly caring for his egg, turning it three times daily, and rotating it once a day. Keeping the temperature of his bedsit the same throughout the day, and night. Protecting it from getting chilled, by keeping it half wrapped in the jumpers. Ensuring the egg is kept clean, by cleansing the shell with a warm sponge. John has also been talking to it as he potters round the bedsit. Unborn winged-babies at a point can hear sounds through the shell. It's important that the winged-child learns their carer's voice. During hatching the winged-child will seek out the voice/voices they learnt. Once the hatchling lays eyes on their carer, they'll imprint on whomever they first see. Imprinting takes only a matter of moments. So it's paramount the hatchling imprints on the _right_ person.

The candling, that morning, had shown clearly a fully formed tiny winged-baby, moving, and _everything. _John feels a tad downhearted, that an ultrasound is impossible. The nature of winged-folk eggs makes it so. Only candling, shining a bright light through the shell, to see the unhatched winged-baby is possible. The light shining through the fetus makes it glow red.

The airsack, and yolk are both clearly visable. Pores in the shell are well-defined. A network of blood vessels under the fetus' thin skin are plain as day. A thin red ring wraps round the yolk. The fetus' eyes look like huge black dots.

Seeing the fetus move it's arms, legs, and _wings! _Gave John a high he never knew he could experience.

After the midwife who came for the candling gave the all clear, a huge weight was lifted from John's shoulders. One he never knew existed until it was no longer present. _The fetus looks strong, and healthy. _Those words! Oh God! What beautiful words.

The egg's parents have already deposited a huge chunk into his bank account. John's eyes had popped out of his skull at the sight of the digits, and he'd even phoned his bank to question it. The bank informed him it is a Rearing Allowance. This knowledge didn't cease the shock of just how much he found awaiting him. It made him wonder why _him _yet again. The clan clearly is dripping in money. Anyone whose heard of the Holmes Clan knows of their wealth. Just as they know of their intelligence. Normally the wealthy clans pick just as wealthy carers. John pushes aside all negative thoughts, he'll look into the Holmes Clan later. After he has found a flat, afterall, John can now look comfortably for a place in London without worrying about the high rents.

John's feeling a growing excitement forming in the pit of his stomach. Time will fly, and there'll be a little bundle of joy in his arms in 12 months time. Winged-folk take 3 months longer, than humans to be born. Hatchlings are a little more delveloped, than human newborns. John is in part relieved for the extra time. More time to sort out his shit.

John's standing at the door to the address at the end of his list. 221 Baker Street. The flat is on the second floor, flat B. Flat C is also available, but winged-folk need their living spaces up high. Flat C is a basement flat so it rules that one out on the get go. As John knocks the door he can only hope this is the _one. _He's feeling weary. John wouldn't be surprised if he's walked the stretch of London many times over.

Soon enough John hears movement on the other side of the door, then is greeted by an elderly petite human woman. She looks to be in her late sixties, with short light brown hair, wearing a purple patterned dress, and a kind smile.

"Hello, I'm John Watson. I'm here about the flat 221B. I sent an email this morning. Is it still available?" John asks warmly, smiling gently.

"Oh, yes...yes...of course. Come right in dear," the woman says opening the door as she steps backwards, allowing room for John to enter "It's right at the top of the stairs hun. Make your way up, while I fetch the keys. I'm Mrs Hudson by the way. The landlady. Oh, it's so lovely to see a young handsome face."

John smiles at the kindly woman as she natters on. Once she's breezed down the hall out of sight, faster than anyone her age should move, John climbs the stairs. Thankful his limp is no more. These stairs would of been murder.

Mrs Hudson is unlocking the door to 221B soon enough.

"It comes fully furnished dear," Mrs Hudson says as she pushes the door open, and walking in.

As John steps over the threshold, he knows, this is the place he wishes to raise his winged-child. It has a homely feeling. Although the wallpaper, and whatnot is in a word...outdated. Mismatched patterns, furnishings, and all. It's still rather lovely. The living-room is spaceous, large windows facing onto the main street, with a small balcony. This is great for a winged-child. Winged-folk hate to feel caged or blocked off from seeing the sky. John eyes the fireplace for a second, then figures he can get a fireguard. The kitchen is joined to the living-room kind of like an open plan layout, although it can be closed off by double doors, perfect for safety, don't want tiny fingers getting into anything in there. Kitchens are highly dangerous to any child, human or winged-folk.

A small corridor leads to a fairly nice bathroom, a shower hangs above a rolltop bath, and plently of room to swing a cat.

At the end of the corridor is, what John suspects to be the master bedroom. A double bed sits comfortably in the centre, wardrobe against the wall beside the doorway, chest of drawers facing the bed, two bedside tables one on either side of the bed. The window is large here also.

As John exits the bedroom Mrs Hudson is waiting for him.

"There's another room upstairs. If you'll be needing two."

John nods, then follows Mrs Hudson to a second set of stairs. Leaving her at the foot, he ascends.

This bedroom is much smaller. A queen size double is next to the near wall, a single wardrobe is opposite the bed, a small chest of drawers right next to it, and an equally small single bedside table next to the bed. The window in this room is very small, a view of the neighbouring building's wall.

John decides, that this room would be his. The master for the winged-child. With his mind made up he descends the stairs.

John finds Mrs Hudson in the living-room. Fussing with odds, and ends.

"What do you think dear?" Mrs Hudson asks, looking hopeful.

"It's rather nice. I think it could be lovely."

Mrs Hudsons beams.

"Why are you needing two rooms hun? Got a flatmate?"

John chuckles at that absurd idea. _Who_ in their right mind would want _him_ as a flatmate? He's grateful he doesn't have to find _one. _At one point he did think of, that line of action. Anything to stay in London. The _egg_ changed all that. Not to even think, about his gun singing it's siren call.

"Lord no. Believe me Mrs Hudson. _That _wouldn't work out. No. I've been chosen. I have a winged-child on the way. So. The need for two rooms," John informs, with a touch of laughter in his voice.

Mrs Hudson's eyes widen saucer like, then suddenly she claps her hands, following it up with "Oh! That's delightful! You're one of The Chosen! Is it just you?"

"Yeah. Me, and soon the little-one."

This time Mrs Hudson hops. _Actually hops! _This woman is fascinating to John. He's sure he's never met a woman like _her._

"Please say you're taking the flat. I just adore children," Mrs Hudson sings. Viberating with joy.

"The place is perfect. Yeah. I'll take it."

John suddenly finds himself being crushed in a tight hug by the petite woman. All John can think, is _how _can this _woman_ be this _strong?!_

Mrs Hudson led John to her flat 221A. Much of the same decor as 221B follows through here.

"You just sit there love, and read through the papers. I'll get you something to fill that belly of yours. You look positively _starved."_

"I'm fine. Really. I don't want to put you out."

"Not putting me out, at all dear," Mrs Hudson throws over her shoulder as she rummages in a cupboard.

John shrugs off his jacket, then drapes it on the back of his chair. He's picking up the rent agreement just as Mrs Hudson plops a plate, with a sizeable piece of a dark brown moist looking sponge cake beside him, a fork resting next to the sponge. John can't help, but stare at the sugary treat. He can't imagine being able to finish it.

"Tea or coffee hun?"

John smiles at her, answering with "Tea would be lovely. Thanks Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson waves the comment away.

"What a polite young man," she gushes, trotting back to the cupboards.

John sets to reading the agreement as Mrs Hudson makes up a pot of tea, scooping fork fulls of coffee cake into his month one handed. The agreement is fair, and rent reasonable for the location. Everything is at a stone's throw. Shops, pubs, restaurants, train station, you name it.

"Hope you like the cake hun. I made it," Mrs Hudson's cheerful voice floats into John's thoughts.

Swollowing the chunk he'd just chewed John replies "Oh yes. It's wonderful."

Indeed it is. Looking down at his plate, the cake, which just moments ago he'd thought was impossiable to get through is almost gone.

"You're a talented cook Mrs Hudson."

"That warms my heart dear."

Pouring tea into cups covered in a flowerly pattern Mrs Hudson questions "How does it feel to be one of The Chosen hun? It must be life changing. I've never met a Chosen in my long life. Seen the winged little darlings of course, but never had the luck in meeting a Chosen. Until today of course. I can see why you've been chosen. Such a sweet young man, with manners. You don't see that much these days. Oh, in my day..."

John had to stop himself from zoning out as Mrs Hudson chatted endlessly, he likes the woman. She has a warmth about her, clearly lonely. Finding someone new to talk to must be a real joy for her.

"...help yourself to sugar, and milk dear."

"Thanks," John says, making his cup just how he likes it.

He notices Mrs Hudson taking a mental note for future refence.

"Was it wonderful, when you found your egg?" Mrs Hudson asks sipping her tea.

"It was a shock. A wonderful one I might add. Never thought I'd be a Chosen."

"Nonsense dear. You're clearly worthy."

John nods "As I've been told."

"When will the little winged darling be here?"

"Some time yet. The egg just passed the first trimester. I want everything ready before the little-one arrives."

"Of course dear. I'll be happy to help in whatever way I can."

"You don't need to..."

"Oh, I _know_, that hun. I want _too_...Oh! I could knit some things. I'm sure, there are patterns for winged-babies out there. Oh! I'm going to knit..."

It took longer to sign a rent agreement, than John had ever thought possible. Mrs Hudson continued to talk about knitting patterns for an age. He was relived, when it came to sign a cheque covering both desposit, and first months rent. That way, there was no reason to remain any longer. He likes Mrs Hudson, but she's a little to much in one go.

The sun had long left the sky by the time John returned to the bedsit. Turning his laptop on he found an email waiting for him. An old rugby buddy had found his blog.

Hey John!

It's Ben. Remember me? From Blackheath. Yeah you do! I just read your blog. So your're back from Afghanistan! Got yourself chosen have ya?! Two fab news in one? Told the lads, and we all agreed we must meet up for a piss up. Celebrate your good fortunes. So write back soon! Yay!

Your good buddy Ben

John types a quick reply, the lads at Blackheath were some of his closest friends before signing up for the army. Before the egg popped into his life John, wouldn't have replied to such an email. He would of hated the idea of having a few pints, with old pals. Something he loved prior to being shot. Now through he feels he has a reason to live. To enjoy life.

Once the winged-child hatches John wont have the time to get pissed. He never drank, that much anyway. With his family's history. He would of been brainless to do so, but sometimes he would let his hair down.

What could be better for a booze up, than celebrating the little-one's journey into his life? John can't think of one.

**John's rugby pals from Blackhealth can be found on his blog. Yup. There is one floating about on the internet :)**

**Let me know what you think...pretty please with sugar on top :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Oh boy, I'm way late for posting this chapter, than I intended. Just been soooo busy in the real world :/**

**Looky at all the wonderful favs, follows, and reviews :) they make me feel warm fuzzies :)**

**Those who are missing baby Sherlock...he'll be here real soon :) **

**I don't own Sherlock in any shape or form...this is written for fun.**

Nesting

Chapter Four

"John!" Ben calls from the other side of the pub. His deep voice covering over the din, reaching John's ears before he can spot his friend.

John peers over the countless heads of the pub goers, and sees his old friend hopping on the spot, waving his arms. A hyper look on his angular face. Shaking his head, John pushes through the crowd.

The group welcome John with cheers, and hoots the very moment he steps up to them.

"John. You son of a gun. You got yourself chosen. How does it feel to be one of the lucky few?" Ben asks John, punching him playfully on his right bicep.

"I bet it works wonders with the chicks!" Martin states, swiging from his pint.

"Lets get you a drink! You've got catching up to do!" Mark tells John as he jumps to his feet.

"Here...here!" the group cheer in unison raising, their pints up into the air as Mark goes in search of booze, on a mission to get John started on getting utterly stinking drunk.

It's like none of them have changed over the years. They're all acting like they had back then, as if the years had never flown by.

"Here. Get that down ya," Mark says pushing a pint into John's hand, appearing as if from thin air.

And that's all John remembers from his night on the town. He had a truly wonderful time, with the lads. Like old times. All of his friends acting like they always had. John was swept up in their youthful ways, forgetting he's no longer eighteen, and maybe a hangover wont just vanish if he willed it so.

John is suffering through the worst hangover he can remember lying flat on his back in bed. He's been willing himself to climb up off his inflatable bed for the past hour. Sudden knocking on his door thunders through John's skull. Jolting him like an electric shock. _Bugger! _That'll be Mike. It's moving day, and Mike offered to help. Good soul as he is. Why did he have to drink, _so much?_ John somehow found the strength to climb out of bed, and answer the door. Anything to stop, that dreadful skull splitting pain.

Opening the door John found Mike smiling warmly clutching a portable incubator to his chest. His eyes scan John, and that warmth vanishes.

"Jesus John! You look like death warmed up! What happened?"

"Don't ask," John answers stepping back to allow Mike entry.

_God! He's never going to drink again!_

Mike had brought an incubator with him, one he borrowed from Barts. A primary reason why John finally relented to accept Mike's help. Mike's argument, was renting a portable incubator would be a waste of money, that could be used for the winged-baby, plus Mike has access to incubators. Borrowing one for a few hours would be no issue.

At times John can be a stuborn ass. Or as stuborn as an ass. John often forgets, which one applies to himself.

"So. You didn't say, what clan your little-one belongs too," Mike says as he switches the incubator on, and waits for it to heat up.

Scratching the back of his head John answers a tad sheepishly "The Holmes Clan."

Mike's eyes grow saucer like.

"I know mate," John says as he begins to fold up his clothes. A black bag at his feet.

"Did you do any research? I know, that half of England knows of The Holmes Clan...but still."

"Yeah. I found out the little-one's mother, Violet Holmes is a mathematician, a genuis. The father Siger Holmes is a Captain in the British army. Maybe that's the reason I was chosen. They wanted someone with army experience, to instill values the army approve of. The more I looked into the Holmes Clan, the more I understood why I was chosen for their egg. Well over half of the clan work for the British government or for the armed forces. The remaining clan members are scientists, professors, and so on."

A beat of silence until Mike breaks it with an almost whisper of "Wow."

"Tell me about it mate."

"What did I tell ya?"

"I'm special. Yeah. I know."

"Do ya think your little-one will be one smart cookie? With all that smart floating in your little-one's gene pool."

"That thought _did _cross my mind. It sure looks it. I know winged-folk are smarter, than humans, but still. A genius?"

He's not sure, how he'll cope with raising one, _that_ smart. Mike must of noticed the look, that fled across John's face before he could prevent it. One of uncertainty. How was _he _meant to help a genuis to grow?

"What's wrong John?"

John shakes his head. Fear clogging up his throat.

"Come on mate. It's me. Spill," Mike encourages, eyes full with warmth locking, with John's navy blues.

"It's just. What if little-one turns out to be a genius? I mean...a winged-folk genuis is far beyond smart it's kind of overwhelming. There's human genius, and, then, there's winged-folk genuis. How can _I_ be...well...you know..." John trails off, with a hand wave as if to knock the words from the very air, they were uttered.

Mike lays a gentle hand on John's forearm holting him in folding his clothes, which he hadn't ceased until Mike's touch.

"You have nothing to worry about John. You'll be a great father. Your little-one will love you. You may not be a genius, but you're one sharp cookie...doctor remember?"

John's heart lightens a little.

"Your right Mike. I was just being daft," John says with a gentle smile.

Mike squeeses his arm in understanding.

Everything is going to be fine, John tells himself for the hundredth time. He's not freaking out one bit. _Nope._

John hadn't realised just how _few_ things he owned, until he had packed, and was standing in his new flat. Everything he owns in the world only fit into two sorry arsed boxes, and a black bag for his clothes. Being in the army for the better part of his adult life meant John didn't need many of the things most people have. Looking down at his belongings, makes John feel a touch hollow inside. It's as if he's lived only half a life. Well, that all ends now. The little-one will bring so much joy into John's life. Fill it with so much wonder.

Mike had ferried John to 221B in his car. The second reason why Mike won the argument. Good old Mike.

The Blog of Dr John H Watson

So I've moved into a new flat. It's decent enough. The landlady is lovely, and very helpful. My friend Mike helped, with the move. He's been my rock. Helping out with the little-one. Even if I haven't asked for any. He kinda just knows, when I need a helping hand.

I'm looking forward for the little-one to hatch, and to hear the pitter-patter of little feet. Look I'm going soft. Anyway...

I had a night out with some old rugby pals. It was a smash. Nice seeing friends from years past. Catching up, and that. Yeah. I did drink a few too many, but I wont be able to do that in the near future. Also it was a celebration of being chosen.

I will keep you posted on the little-one.

Mike gave me a book on baby names, as I wont know the little-one's gender until the hatching. I will have to pick both boy's, and girl's names I like.

I would like it to honour the little-one's clan as well as having meaning for me too.

Oh boy. This is going to be tough.

Comments

Are you going to have a house warming? Give me a buzz. I wonna have a meet. See your digs.

Harry Watson

Please answer your phone

E Thompson

You didn't say anything about keeping a blog John. You sly horse. Didn't think you were the type. Keep in mind I'm here to help, whenever. I'm just a phone call away.

Mike Stamford

Fab news John. What about William? It's a fine name.

Bill Murray

After checking his blog, John chuckled at Bill's comment. Although...William Holmes. John roled the name round his mouth. Tasting it on his tongue. It does has a good ring to it.

John makes a note of it.

**Nine months later**

**January 5th 9am **

John's egg should of hatched two weeks ago! Twelve months have passed. The end of the fourth trimester has come, and gone, yet no sign of hatching. As winged-folk have an extra trimester for growth, plus time for their brains to develop beyond, that of human newborns. John knew all of this, and he also knows, that babies come into the world on their own terms. You can't mark a date on the calendar, and expect said baby to pop into the world on time. No matter if, that baby is human or winged-folk.

What has John concerned most of all is his unhatched baby isn't making any signs of _wanting _to hatch.

Normally, when winged-folk babies begin to get ready to hatch, the egg will wobble from time to time as the baby begins to move vigorously. Finding the once spacious egg to be far to confining. The unhatched baby will also chirp from within their egg. Calling out to their carer/carers. The voice of their carer/carers encourages the unhatched baby to break free of their egg. These happen a few days before the first cracks of the shell appear. For John. _Nothing! _He's beginning to worry. Well. In fact he's moved past worrying, and moved into scary town. He's taken up camping out in the little-one's room on a chair beside the bed/nest.

The warm winter sunlight is filling the bedroom with it's enticing rays, acting like warm fingers brushing across John's skin, drawing him back to the land of the living. The sound of birdsong ringing in John's ears. John's sleepy eyes flutter open, and instantly he's awake. Springing from his chair like a jack-in-a-box.

What John's sleep plugged mind misinterpeted as birdsong is in fact the chirps of John's unhatched winged-baby calling out to him. The egg is rocking from left to right remarkably fast. Perhaps the winged-baby became distressed, when John didn't reply to it's call.

"Little-one I'm here," John says to the rocking egg.

The rocking slows to gentle movements, and the chirping quietens to soft sounds. Pressing his plams into the mattress beside the egg, John inspects the shell, and notes hairline cracks criss-crossing the surface. It seems his little-one has decided it's time to hatch, and is wasting no time about it. This makes John wonder, what kind of character his winged-baby has. If things follow on the same route as the hatching, then John will be kept on his toes.

Straightening to his full height John dashes to grab his mobile from the living-room. Punching the contact he needs as he zooms back to the little-one's room. The chirping is on-going, so John makes some smoothing sounds hoping to calm his unhatched baby some. It seems to work, although the chriping doesn't stop. Still insisting to call out to John.

The moment the line picks-up John says in a single breath "Mike it's happening! The baby is on it's way!"

_I'm a doctor! I'm a bloody doctor! There is no need to freak out!_ _I know what'll happen! The hatching will take hours! _John tells himself as he paces the bedroom, with his mobile plastered to his ear. Mike's calming voice flittering into his mind, which is freaking out no matter how much he tells it not too.

At the moment he's not Dr John H Watson, but he's John Watson soon to be father. Who has the knowledge of, what could go wrong.

**Let me know what you think...pretty please with sugar on top :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Both myself and my beta have been super busy :/ that's why the late update. Sorry for the wait. Hope you enjoy :)**

**Just a note saying I'm no longer on AO3 just here and Wattpad. I kept forgetting about AO3 :/ **

**I don't own Sherlock in any shape or form...this is written for fun.**

Nesting

Chapter Five

The brilliant white walls, which seem to glow, and the heavy smell of antiseptic hanging in the air scream hospital. The kind, that all hospitals seem to share. John's at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in a room in the winged-antenatal care ward. The room is small, cube-like, but it is kitted out for welcoming a winged-baby into the world. A kind of cot, a hatching-nest is housing John's egg. It's made of robust clear plastic, all smooth curves, rounded into an oblong shape. John had brought along the jumpers, that made up most of the nest, they were placed into the hatching-nest, his egg nestled amongst them. The room is at the perfect temperature, humidity, and almost sound-proof. During hatching peacefulness is a must, also the right humidity is important during this time of the hatching. It's at this time the bonding will strengthen to the point of shatter-proof. Once the bond is complete it'll remain as strong as the day it was formed until the winged-child reaches the time of parting, when they are firmly in adulthood, and no longer in need of their carer/carers.

The beginnings of the bond have already taken hold, but if things are not done just so the bond could break before it even really began.

There are medical machines hooked up to the wall behind the hatching-nest ready for when the hatchling arrives. Equipped to ensure the young life is fine or if something goes horridly wrong to save a life.

John is seated in a hard plastic chair right next to the hatching-nest his eyes glued to the egg. The shell is now looking like a roadmap, with it's many cracks. John's unhatched baby is chirping on, and off now. The rocking quite forceful. Whenever John speaks the chirping has a rhythm to it. Sounding like a songbird welcoming the dawn. The winged-folk native tongue sounds like birdsong. Due to winged-folk's avian roots. They have loads in common with birds. In fact winged-folk are somewhere inbetween bird, and mammal genetically. A missing-link if you will.

The nurses, midwifes, and doctors here are all human. Mike Stamford being the exception, the only winged-human in the whole hospital. The numbers of winged-humans are very low in the greater population. So it's no surprise Mike's the only one at St Bart's. He's the only winged-human John has ever met.

In other departments both human, and winged-folk work together, but due to winged-folk natural unease interacting with infants of their own kind, or human in fact they don't take up jobs to do with children. Mike inherited his warm manner towards children from his human half. His mother. Not all winged-humans are this way with children, it's a 50/50 chance of them following in the footsteps of their winged-folk heritage or human. Normally they have characteristics of both in one form or another.

Mike slips into the room as silent as a whisper.

"John?" Mike says gently laying a hand on John's shoulder startling him in the process.

"Jesus! Give a bloke a warning would ya?!" John breathes clutching a hand to his racing heart.

"Sorry John. I didn't want to make too much noise."

John nods in understanding, his eyes zooming back onto his egg. Ensuring the sudden noise didn't disturb the hatching.

"Come to check-up on the little-one?" John asks.

"Yeah. Although I'm here as your friend also. _Not_. Just your winged-baby's _doctor_ John. Anyone you want me to call for you?"

"No. Thanks Mike."

"Are you sure?"

John nods.

"Not even Harry?"

_Harry. _That's all John needs. He wants to keep his alcoholic sister as far away from the little-one for as long as possible. Although knowing Harry she'll pop up sooner or later, most likely sooner, drunk to boot. _Nope. _Not at this speacial time. She needs to stay away. If he could trust her to keep off the drink, then things would be different. John shots Mike a dark look. Loaded with all the answers the hybrid needs.

"Alright John," Mike says reluctantly turning to the hatching-nest.

John watches with eager eyes as Mike runs his hands over the cracked egg shell, with a feather light touch. His fingertips the only point of contact with the weaken surface. John feels an unrealistic fear crawling up his spine as Mike does his job. He knows Mike wont harm the little-one, but his rantional mind has vacated his skull. His protective side is notched up to the max. This stage of hatching anything could go wrong, and happens _fast!_

"All's well John. You can stop fretting now," Mike tells John with a gentle smile as he steps back from the hatching-nest.

"I _wasn't _fretting," grumbles John.

"Okay."

Hours, which have felt like days to John have whizzed passed. The sounds of shell breaking is echoing throughout the hosiptal room. A midwife is standing off to the side monitoring the hatching. Ready to take action if needed. John is standing before his egg uttering words of encouragement. His voice helping the winged-baby through the final moments of hatching. The more John speaks the more his baby weakens the shell encasing the small being. Chipping away at the shell from within, and pushing at it with it's limbs.

All winged-babies have an egg-tooth, which will fall off soon after hatching. This tool allows them to escape the confines of their egg. It's the reason why the shells cracks in the first place. Once the shell is weakened enough the winged-baby will also push against the shell walls. In the final moments of hatching the winged-baby will be exhausted. It takes hours to hatch. The shell's strength, which once protected the winged-baby, becomes a hinderance.

John's winged-baby is at a critical stage. Nearing the end of hatching much energy has been used up to break free. Whatever was left of the yoke sack would be depletted now. No more energy stores to pull from. A weak winged-baby could die even before the hatching is complete.

The first shards of egg-shell of John's egg are being pushed from within, but still stubbornly holding tight to the egg.

"Come on little-one you can do it," John says as he watches the movements of the shell.

In reply the still unhatched winged-baby chirps.

"Push! Go on. Push that shell away."

A few moments pass, then the unhatched winged-baby gives on almighty push at the shell, and a chunk slips off. John's eyes soak in the first real glimpse of his winged-baby. What he can see is clearly the baby's back. Part of one of the wings is visable. Like all winged-babies the wing is covered in a yellow fluffy down similar to most ducklings. The colouring of these young feathers have no insight what colour the wings will be once fully grown. Winged-folk wings will change colour many times thoughout childhood. Flight feathers wont start to appear until around the age of twelve years. Then, and only then, will the adult plumage be known.

After a short break, which the winged-baby breathes speedily, it pushes at the shell once more, yet again a chunk of egg shell slips off. John can now see the skin of his winged-baby. It's a pale cream, unlike human newborns hatchlings don't have that baby pink colour if they are caucasian, that is.

3am on the 6th of January will forever be sketched onto John's soul. As if some unseen artist had traced out the very scene before his eyes.

John's winged-baby has just this minute hatched.

A new life has entered the world. An unique being. A treasure to be cherished. John is certain his heart has just stopped. Looking upon his newly hatched winged-child for the first time is one of those momentus moments, that will never be forgotten, and will forever change him. From this moment on he'll be a different person. The John H Watson before is no more. He has been reborn at the sight of this beautiful creature. Love at first sight. A love of a father for their child.

The hatchling is a boy. A mop of thick jet black curly hair is gracing his head. As winged-folk wings are often similar in colour to their hair. It's a good chance his wings will turn out to be a shade of black, when fully grown. He's lying on his back, shards of egg shell lay surrounding the small form. The small creature is covered in a clear mucus, and is squealing chirps like crazy calling out to John at the top of his lungs. His arms, and legs, which are longer, than human newborns are moving sluggishly. Stretching out after being scrunched up in a ball for so very long. Learning of the new found freedom of being in the outside world. His large baby blues are blinking up at John. Locking onto his face. _Inprinting._

"Hey, little-one," John whispers as he scoopes up the tiny bungle of joy, with a towel the midwife had handed him at some point, John can't clearly pinpoint when.

The new life squirms a little as John wraps the towel expertly round the form pressing the small body to his chest. Those large unblinking eyes never leaving John's face. The near deafening chirps subside. Silence descends, like a cosy blanket on a winter's night.

"Hi," John says as he wipes away some of the mucus from the hatchling's face.

"I'm your daddy. It's so nice to meet you at last."

John runs a finger over a tiny clenched fist, that's clutching the towel. He is awed by this new life he's crandling in his arms. The hatchling curls his fingers round, that questing finger. John's heartstrings are tugged. He feels tethered to this new being, and he welcomes it.

"I will always keep you safe. Nothing or no-one will _ever_ hurt you. My sweet little-one," John promises as he begins to rock his bungle.

The unexcpectantly soft chirp from the hatchling makes John's heart swell to bursting point. It's as if the hatchling is acknowledging John's promise. John smiles so bright. Looking at this new life, that means more to him, than life itself. John has fallen in love before, but never thought there could be a love on a different level. A level, that transcends everything. It's indisputable, indubitable, unquestionable...perfection.

"Dr Watson, a minute has passed. The imprinting is compete. I must do my checks now," the midwife voices, hovering nearby.

_A minute? _Felt like eons to John. As a doctor John knows the checks are vastly important to ensure the health of his little-one, but as a new father he doesn't want to relinquish his hatchling. He feels as if the only safe place is within his arms. Anywhere else is near disaster. Reluctantly John passes his hatchling to the midwife. The moment he's no longer holding the hatchling, he wails. His tiny long limbs fraying.

John has to halt himself not to rush over to his little-one.

The midwife places the crying hatchling on scales, notes his weight, then the other checks are run, and noted. His heart rate, respiration, muscle tone, reflex response, and skin tone. The midwife feels round the inside of the hatchling's mouth, counts his fingers, and toes. Lifts him up, then runs her fingers over his stubby wings. The checks aren't that much different to human newborns. Once the midwife looks happy with the check she places identification bands round his right wrist and ankle. Wrapping him into a baby-blue blanket and passing him back into John's eager arms.

"He's in perfect health Dr Watson."

"Of course he is. He's perfect," John tells the midwife, but his eyes are glued to his little-one.

The hatchling stops wailing once he hears John's voice, and opens squinched up eyes. Eyes, that seem to look into John's soul.

"You're perfect little-one. Utter perfection."

John gently rotates the band round the tiny wrist, and reads: Watson/Holmes. Warmth pools in the pit of John's stomach. Proof, that this life is tied to him. Twenty-three years all of a sudden doesen't seem long enough. A life-time. John would give a life-time to this remarkable soul. He would follow him into the mouth of Hell, go to the ends of the Earth, and back. _Anything. _For the first time since getting shot, John prays.

_Please let me keep him. I'll do anything to have him in my life until my dying day. I can't ever give him up. Be without him. Please! We belong in each others lives. I feel it in my bones._

John is thankful, when the midwife hands him a feeding tub. Freeing himself from the U-turn his thoughts had taken him. Winged-babies eat mushed up food. The first feeding after hatching is important. All that energy used up to hatch needs replacing at the double. John takes a seat and begins to slowly feed the hatchling a protein rich paste. It's made from whey protein mostly, with fat and other goodies to enrich the small body.

The hatchling works his jaw round the strange feeling of food entering his mouth, then swallows. Looking as if this is most wonderous.

"Nice?" John asks his little-one.

A happy chirp is his answer.

"Have you thought of a name, Dr Watson? He is such a delightfully beautiful winged-child."

John peers up at the midwife for the first time in hours.

"Yeah. It's a bit long winded I'm afraid," John answers with his boyish grin.

John had taken his sweet time on thinking up both a girl, and a boy name. Wanting to give his little-one the perfect name. Whatever gender the winged-baby ended up to be.

Looking back down at the hatchling in his arms John says "His name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

**Let me know what you think...pretty please with sugar on top :)**


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